Clockwork
by skysedge
Summary: Patterns, cycles, rituals on repeat.


_**A/N **__This was written while in a frantic fanfiction withdrawal, prompted by request posts on various sites I use. Written jointly for __marikukitten __on tumblr who requested Cain angst and __TaylorLove__ on vf who requested Cain and Riff. This is fairly short for me, mainly because I rarely write for these guys and because it was written in precisely one hour. Speed fanfiction requests __**go**__. All reviews and comments appreciated and rewarded with virtual teacakes._

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><p>I dismiss him.<p>

It's the only natural command from a master to his servant and I long ago stopped feeling guilty about doing so, if I ever did. And he leaves. It's simple, like clock-work, like a dance with no end. Summon, instruct, wait, accept, dismiss. Repeat.

There are different sorts of dismissals, of course. Sometimes, I dismiss him when he's completed an errand and reported back. He tells me all the details in that quiet, straightforward way of his and then bows his way out without a complaint. Those times, I feel grateful and chastise myself for not thanking him properly. Other times, I dismiss him after he has helped me with personal tasks, my shoes for instance. He always smiles and I suspect he's laughing behind that professional expression. I've never minded that. Once he's left after doing this, I feel a strange sort of coldness in my chest and have to busy myself in something else. Occasionally, I dismiss him in company and I can tell none of my guests approve of the manner in which I speak to him. It's not fashionable, having your servant as your friend. I know that, which is why I never let that scandalous word leave my lips. It's not as if my aristocratic nuisances would understand it even if I did.

But then there are the _other _times. The ones we do not speak of in the morning light. The ones I am ashamed of and he...well. I have no idea what he thinks. I'm not sure I want to. The pattern is the same as always. Summon, instruct, wait, receive, dismiss.

I summon him unconsciously. My dreams are dark on all nights. Some nights they transcend that darkness and are so bright that they burn me. He tells me I usually cry out in my sleep, that he can hear me from down the corridors. I'm not sure this is possible but accept it since the alternative is that he waits all night just to see if I'll need him.

I need him often.

Once he has quietly let himself into my chamber and awoken me with a gentle hand, I instruct him. I say nothing; this is the sort of instruction he does not need words to understand. I instruct him with the tears in my eyes, the colour in my cheeks, the trembling in my hands. I never move, just sit up in bed and implore him to understand.

He is the only one who always understands, even when I think he does not.

The silence draws out, on those nights. The manor is still, as if it were empty. I try not to breathe and ruin it although I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. In those moments of silence, I know myself to be truly weak. I wasn't weak when father beat me. I wasn't weak when I would cry in the gardens. I'm not weak when fear and pride get the better of me and I hurt the ones I love. Only then, shivering in the silence and surrounded by the shadows of past pain, am I weak. And I wait. I wait and pray for my false strength to return to me.

He never leaves me waiting for long, a perfect servant always.

His hands are always warm. It's not strange, the way he touches me. Just large hands on my arms and a shoulder to rest my head against. Slowly, the darkness becomes empty, nothing but an absence of light. It's as if between us we create a beacon, a repellent to everything that disturbs my sleep and darkens my more thoughtful waking hours. And it's always been this way, since I was a child. I used to keep crying as he held me, apologising, feeling ashamed. I still feel ashamed but now I do so silently. I accept his silent assurances. Sometimes, he'll speak to me. If the day preceding has been particularly bad or if something has been weighing on my mind, he's normally prepared all the comforts I need on the subject beforehand. I sometimes wonder how much of his time he must devote to concerning himself with my wellbeing.

It's natural, for a servant. But I'm grateful. Nights alone would be endless.

If I don't calm down for a long time, I sometimes feel his hand running through my hair. And I want to speak, to tell him to remember his place, to remind him that I am no longer a child. But I can't and I don't, and instead lean on him a little more. And I realise I'm waiting again, as if I've given another instruction without speaking. I can hear him take a breath, part his lips to speak...

And I dismiss him.

He leaves quickly after I've spoken, closing the door firmly behind him and taking his warmth away. These times, I feel guilty. Surely there is something else I should do, some words I could say, some further instruction I could give to end that fragile, dangerous moment and make something tangible, solid, safe. It would be easy. I can almost touch it, it's so close.

But no, of course not. I do not deserve such things. I am already blessed with his presence, not just on those lonely nights but in every moment. If I were to grasp more selfishly I am sure it would be taken from me in an instant. To lose this...would be like losing half of my heart. I'd survive but in a broken, halting way. I'd leave bloodied footprints behind me with each step.

So I will dismiss him. Always. And he will not presume to stay. Patterns, cycles, rituals on repeat.

I am waiting. The moon is particularly bright tonight and in the silence of my chamber I can imagine I can hear it, breaking through the darkness like the clear and musical singing of a harp. There are tears clinging in my eyelashes, tiny jewels blocking my vision but I don't need to see. I know he's there and I know how this will run.

The bed dips beside me, a comforting weight. Resting my head on his shoulder, I close my eyes and listen to the singing of the moon, the pulse of my heart, the gentle cadence of his breathing.

I do not thank him, not for this. I will act as if it has never happened before, did not happen tonight and will never happen again. It's the only natural response from a master to his servant and I bear the guilt of this tradition daily. And he leaves. And I miss him the moment he is gone. It's infinitely complicated, like clock-work, like a dance with no guiding accompaniment. Summon, instruct, wait, accept, dismiss.

Repeat.


End file.
